Monday, 31 October 2011

Sometimes I wish I were a native African or Australian, measuring my days by the passage of the sun through the skies, agreeing to meet at precise times like high noon, give or take a few hours, and never possessing a watch. Imagine not possessing a watch!

I'm not, however, and I don't, and I do, and I can't imagine it for a moment. And neither can, I'm afraid, the rest of the west, for want of a better term.

And so I ran, leaping gaps, fording peetrails, encountering strange tribes, deciphering faint signs and train times, finally squeezing daughter through the Gare du Nord Eurostar check in and onto the 18.13 for King's Cross Saint Pancras in the nick of time, give or take a few seconds.

Well, it's been a long 24 hours - the clocks went back, adding 60 minutes - and I need a good 9 or 10 hours to face up to the next 7 days. Sweet dreamtimes - see you in Neverland!

I realised that my blog's been looking a little horizontally challenged over the last few days, but my only choices were a landscape format shot of a dark city night with a poster inciting people not to piss against Paris walls (illustrated), or this.

Not having the heart to rain urine upon you on what is, for me at least, 8.15 on a Sunday morning, we're going to have to have vertical sex. Such are the early morning dilemmas of the Paris street photo blogger.

Another option, you might be saying to yourself, would be to stay in bed sleeping like any other normal human, but unfortunately you'd be forgetting 23-month-old humans for whom it's quite normal to be ready and raring to go at this devilish hour, and for whom the concept of 'weekend' or 'Sunday lie-in' hasn't yet attained crucial significance level.

How am I even able to be typing these words then, might be your next question. Ah hah! My secret weapon. The shame and salvation of all parents: the moving picture box in the corner I'm afraid. The downside is that fully-grown adults find themselves humming and sotto voccing with great gusto the theme tune to Noddy or the Teletubbies on the rush hour train like it was the latest Kasabian or Eminem stormer. Weird glances and wanely understanding smiles all round. The upside is a moment's peace, albeit at a time you'd far rather be horizontal.

Which brings me back to my dilemma. And sex.

This is the company I keep. SFR, I mean. Coming out of Gare du Nord a couple of days ago, I was confronted with this comforting vista; my phone, internet and TV provider at the bottom, another basic need in the middle, and the ubiquitous cheery green pharmacy cross at the top like some sort of holy church of desire. An Eiffel tower shaped eulogy to the excessive emissions and ingurgitations of modern French society. SFR-SEX-STD. We look for it, we get it, and we try to clean up afterwards. A metaphor for our times. A hoary hierarchy of needs, if you will. Maslow would be wetting himself.

But that story's for another rainy day. Have a nice Sunday, y'all. I'm off to Prête-Moi Paris to read about macaroons and other mush. Or possibly just change the nappy (daiper/couche) of one of the wages of my sins. To each their excesses. Dors bien if you can. Otherwise, enjoy life and learn to love the Teletubbies. BIG Huuggg ;~S

For a start, I'm not convinced anyone actually believes in them, except in extreme cases of indoctrination, and even then I'm not so sure. And then there's the elaborate and, let's face it, somewhat arbitrary fashion in which they are fabricated (such as, mmm, 'it being about time we had a new one', or 'Well, she was alright, wasn't she? Let's make her a saint. Miracle, anyone?').

Be that as it may, to my high relief they are still around in all shapes and sizes. I'm not happy about this for spiritual reasons but for aesthetic ones, because when all's said and done, my adopted city would be a far blander place without the aforementioned canonized ones.

Patron saints are an interesting derivation of the idea, and rather handy, because once you've got on, having already passed over and into blessedness, they can put a word in for you with the big daddy upstairs and generally keep a look out for you. That's the theory, anyway.

In my mind this idea has been a bit abused, because it seems that any old skier, bee-keeper, chimney sweep, prostitute or brewer can have one which, don't get me wrong, seems to dilute the idea a little.

Once you delve into the list itself, and start mind-tripping over the idea of patron saints for hunters (thank goodness animals don't have souls), animal welfare and rights workers (umm...) and eunuchs (Ouch! So how does that work?), it starts to dawn on you that the whole creaky concept is on a dangerously slippery slope to wingdom come.

If you want an eye-boggling few minutes, read the entire patronising role-call, but what I wanted to say here was that my little son's second first name is Jordi, which is Catalan for 'George', who is the patron saint for Catalonia, which is where his mother grew up.

And there the problems start again, you see. If he's the patron saint for Catalonia, then what the freak is he doing popping up and piercing dragons all over England, where I grew up. Surely if he's to fulfil his north-eastern Spanish commitments competently, he can't be being distracted by the fates of the odd 50 million future souls up there in the North Sea ('odd' being the operative word ;-).

And what about all the other, let's face it, not insignificant nations he seems to be double booked by, such as Germany, Egypt, Portugal, the rest of Spain itself (hang on a sec, I thought Catalonia didn't want to be...), Bulgaria, the United States... I just hope the dragon count's not too heavy in these lands, or Georgie-boy's going to have his work cut out, and his allegiancies sorely tested. Not to mention some hastily forged alliances with butchers, scouts, knights, field workers, saddle makers, sheep, syphilis and the Brazilian football team, to name but a few. Supplicants a-gogo.

Either he's some kind of supersaint, or the world's favourite lizard-lunger should seriously reflect on the work load and professional choices of colleagues Sts. Geneviève and Thomas Aquinas (of Paris and universities respectively) and possibly consider stepping off the holy water a little. And before you ask if there's a patron saint for workaholics... of course there are: Patron Saints Joseph and Dymphna, come on down!

Friday, 28 October 2011

Kitsch kitsch kitsch. If you live in Paris, there's no getting away from... Paris.

And this was in a bookshop! Well, it was an American one, but still. Do they really think their anglophone customers are going to skip off with the latest Dan Brown under one arm and a grotesquely oversized model of the Eiffel Tower bustling for baguette space under the other?

Seems like they do.

I'd love to meet the family that would actually welcome one of these things into their home. Or maybe be surprised during a sophisticated soirée to find a towering metal monster tucked away in a corner masquerading as a béret stand. (Because all French people wear berets, y'know.)

"Umm, excuse me," I'd whisper conspiratorially, having tactfully pulled them aside. "You do realise there's a grossely kitsch 'Eiffel Tower' in the corner of your apartment, don't you?" I'd say, before mocking them mercilessly for their flagrant lack of good taste.

But, alas, I never have, and may never will, and will have to live with it. Or rather 'without' it. Because, you know what? In my heart of hearts, and despite my mocking, it's just symptomatic of a chronic case of Eiffel envy.

In fact, I'd love to have a flipping great Paris icon in the corner of my living room. Just think of the advantages: bye bye the annual Christmas tree trek; super practical for drying shirts on; envious glances from covetous Americans just passing through... And best of all, dead easy to conceal with hats and coats whenever French friends come around. The summits of bad taste do have a serious downside, after all.

Thursday, 27 October 2011

Gonna cheat a little here folks. The next few postings will also be doubling as entries from a few of my Paris Top Tens, as there's only so much a humble urban wonder hunter can do.

This one's from my latest and stupidest greatest idea yet: Sab's Top Ten Paris Sidewalk Scribblings or something of that ilk.

You'll know I like to witter on about my pictures and related randomness, but I really don't know what I'll have to say about these things. The fact is, though, that strange scrawls and particularly stencils appear overnight by who knows who, with messages of varying gravity or grossness and I suddenly realised that I have quite a few of them so I'll see if I can tie them together somehow.

It's a bit of a risk, I guess. I mean, who's gonna be interested in a bunch of random sidewalk graffiti, I ask myself, but I have a feeling about it, it's Paris, and I'm gonna go for it. I've got it inside and I have to get it out, whatever the consequences, come what may; bring it on sir, même pas peur.

Such a proper and prim little Parisienne, she's always been one of my favourites. But her days are numbered. Although there are plenty of her and her shutter sisters still proudly on duty throughout the older parts of the city, those fallen into disrepair are not being replaced.

Even worse, modern buildings don't even include shutters for her to hold steady, or gracefully bow her head to let open or close above her. She's a dying breed.

Is it significant, or merely maudlin mind-wanderings that make things from the past seem so much more, what... quaint, than things of our time? But then again 'quaint' simply means charmingly old-fashioned or having a pleasantly odd touch of nostalgia, which doesn't enlighten us much.

Do you think, way back when these little ladies were being installed, the locals were tut-tutting to themselves, saying,"Goodness gracious moi, what a load of newfangled nonsense! What was wrong with good old goat turds to keep the shutters open, that's what I want to know. What's the city coming to these days, good grief, grumble grumble...?"

Well I don't know. It's true I seem to spend a lot of time focusing on the past glories of Paris, but do I really? As one of the world's greatest sceptics, I don't tend to believe things unless I've seen them for myself or someone's given me a darn good explanation and justification for them. And, personally, I've never seen the past, so to speak, so who's going to convince me that it ever existed? You could argue that yes I have, if I remember my childhood, but that's just memories, whatever they are, and anyway, the childhood I knew was actually the current moment at the time!

What I'm looking at, when I see these cute little shutter dames, is the present, or some version thereof, as far as I'm concerned, although I'd equally defy you to tell me what 'the present' actually consists of, for that matter. If you told me that the present was 'today', for example, as I type this at 7.26am, I'd challenge you that half an hour ago, when I made my first coffee of the day just before 7am, is now 'the past', and that my meeting at 11.15am is most certainly in the future.

Anyway, these are the sort of deliciously and perhaps unsolvable conundrums that wandering around old cities stirs up, and I wouldn't have it any other way. Good day to you ma'am. Be seeing you around and keep up the good work. You never know when it'll be needed for another aimless existential rambles at sometime in the future... or the past? Which came first by the way? Are you sure? Can you prove it? On who's terms? A lot of people regret growing old because they don't want to die. But who spends their life pining because they didn't exist for so long before their birth? Weren't they equally non-alive? It's all a question of perspective, if you like. And if you don't like...

Not that I'm a retiring soul or anything, it's just that there's a time and a blog for self-portraits, and this isn't it (can you spot me, I'm cunningly hiding behind a fractured mirror and a tattered iPhone lens bottom right, with a severe case of orangism..?).

Having said that, although I do feature in the above photograph, this piece still admirably fits the Paris & I blog's brief: weird visions of my version of Paris, with no monopoly on reality.

Those of you who know Paris will recognise the cinema complex right next to the beautiful (naw, I'm kiddin') Bibliotèque Nationale de France, and what should I come across? Well, as a major of fan of squares and cubes, imagine my delight when I was witness to the installation of what I assume is a temporary artwork comprising more-than-man-sized cubes of mirrors in multifaceted configurations!

Well worth a stroll past this eye candy and a welcome relief from the mucky beige mess of the BNF.

Be careful though. If you don't watch out you'll find the aforementioned architectural abomination tainting even this beautiful invitation to reflection, so choose your angles wisely, and not widely...

This is a hovel. My hovel. My dream house. It's down on the old Petite Ceinture line which used to run around Paris back when men was men, trains was trains and huts were proud of it.

I screwed up today. Big time. I shouldn't be here. I should be out taking photos in Paris with some lovely people from Down Under, keen to discover the city through my eyes. Before crushing our rugby team. I forgot. How does that make me feel? How do I feel?

Sunday, 23 October 2011

What you see here, as with all my photos, is the culmination of a long creative process. Still with me? Cool. So anyway, yes, believe it or not, the final result, culmination and dénouement, if you will (yes, it is an English word, kind of, I looked it up), I offer you daily on this here blog is the final step in a series of imaginative decisions and dilemmata.

While it might seem a little pretentious or precious to suggest that you are witnessing the birth of a lovingly prepared oeuvre, that's effectively what's happening. These images and words are my babies, and I offer them to you, to accept or refuse, with infinite humility and hope.

If you look, and read, this for me is acceptance, and I thank you. Irrespective of what your following reaction is.

I had a message from someone on Flickr, the photo storing and sharing service I use, 'inviting' me (as they say) to add this photo to his group, which he has named 'Fictitious Reality'. That's a pretty good name for a photo group, I reckon. Playing with people and places. Pretending we're actually doing something that means something. Making life a game. Good. Welcome to my fiction.

Not one of my Top Ten metro station signs, unfortunately, coz there ain't no sign, indeed nothing which says 'Hey, this is the craziest Paris metro station entrance/exit in existence', although there really should be.

And the darned thing is SO difficult to photography effectively. For some reason, and I don't know if this is on purpose or not, the incredible shower of glorious coloured balls seems to merge with the trees and buildings behind and it's devilishly difficult to take a pic which does the thing justice.

Anyway, here's one way of tackling a subject like this one, and I don't think I need to give you a detailed description of what I've done here, it's pretty obvious.

I remember seeing this thing for the first time a few years ago when it was first installed / unveiled, and thinking, "Yes"! That's what I'm in Paris for. This kind of madness. And long may the delirium continue.

Thursday, 20 October 2011

Now don't go getting all reflective on me... oh, ok then, get all reflective on me. You can see where this is going, and it's not a good look.

You know, Paris & I is as much (almost) my personal diary as a photo record of my life in Paris, so there will be times when the twain doeth meet, and this might be one of them.

I'm reminded by this mother-and-daughter shot snuck in the metro of a poem of mine from way back when, and I'll share it with you now (three generations - parenthesising me), including the original photo which inspired it, and have done with it. Do, with it what you will. But do.

Have you ever woken up with a neck that feels like you just swallowed a bucket o'rust! Heh heh, I've been there, I can tell ya!

This particular rust pile's a bit different to a hangover from hell, however.

What we're looking at here is a wonderful open-air sculpture park, excruciatingly ephemeral (like all brutal beauty?), by someone called Carmona. That's it: Carmona. Of course, I could Google him, but then again so could you, right?

A score of scintillating sculptures, gradually rotting gloriously by the banks of the river Seine, what an ending!

This guy's peeing (I've spared you the pee trails) and his miserable mutt is too. Here's looking at you!

The iron girl's umbrella's threatening to fly her away, dippety day!

And the funny thing is, my two-year-old son shares his name. Carmona. It's enough to bring a lump to my throat.

Tuesday, 18 October 2011

A short stroll around the Marais on a Sunday afternoon, admittedly the stupidest time to do so, unearthed, or should I say 'dewalled' some interesting finds as usual.

In particular, a handful of gems for my 400 Paris Quirks and Top 10 series, which was pleasing.

Here's a splendid Paris coat of arms, crowned by a house number, adorning a hotel's facade. Very nice, folks, and going straight into my Top 10 Bloody Paris Boats series. This one falls into the 'small, detailed and precious' category, and if I'd been a couple of feet taller I'd have made the shield the largest thing in the picture and not the bloody hotel sign, but beggars can't be choosers.

It's interesting to note the regal fleurs de lys sitting smuggly atop the Paris boat symbol, as though the city hadn't lived through countless decades of antiroyalist uprisings and revolution in order to get rid of the bloody monarchy. Bloodily. The signs are there folks, if you happen to look.